For Edoras
by horsiegurl
Summary: Weeks before the battle for Helm's Deep, rumors abound in Edoras. Haleth, son of Hama, and his friends search in vain for the answers to their questions about what the world is coming to. Will the battle provide them with answers or death?
1. Haleth's Tale

**Chapter One: Haleth's Tale**

A/N: I have posted this for a friend of mine. She was not so proud of the story, but I did, so I am posting it. I beta read for her.  
**Notice:** This chapter has been highly revised, and much has been changed. Please do read it again; you'll get a very differently-carried-off story. We apologize for the inconvenience.

Disclaimer: The author owns the two girls. Philippa Boyens and Fran Walsh own Haleth (and Philippa Boyens is in charge of Haleth's actor, except perhaps not now that he's eighteen and maybe away from home). Everything else belongs to Tolkien.

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I rode out a ways from Edoras with Haleth today. We took Mared and Ruim, the former, a gelding, belonging to Haleth's father Hama and the other, a mare, to Heoman, another guard of Meduseld. Neither of our mounts could gallop a fair distance, but that did not matter to my companion and me today, for we only wanted to see the White Mountains from far below, on the plain surrounding Edoras' steep rise. When I am down on the plain, I look up and up and _up_ to the very peaks, blue-purple and frosted white outlined crystalline against the impossibly clear sky. The wall of white-gray-blue patterns of snow and rock seems to stretch endlessly before me, from side to side and so high; I feel a sense of infinity in how the mountains go on and on, but also an incredible smallness, that I am the youngest of the young, looking upon such beauty and vastness that has existed and remained since before the First Age, perhaps before even the elves. I feel that no matter what happens these mountains will always remain. They are a reminder to Haleth and me that some things do not change, because many things in our world are changing. 

Our king, Theoden, who used to come out of Meduseld nearly every day and check on the well-being of Edoras or ride out to some of the outlying villages, has not been seen in the city for more than a month now. Grima, King Theodon's advisor, has been the subject of much rumor lately, and the orphanage nurses call him Wormtongue. At first, I thought it was because he hisses when he speaks, but Anawyn has since told me that the nurses think he is poisoning the king's mind, and that is why he does not, or cannot, come out of Meduseld. I cannot know what to think of this, as I cannot pay as much attention to the royal goings-on as I would like: the orphanage stands very close to Edoras' outer wall, and the only time I can hear news is either when it comes to us through the many people who donate food and clothing to the children, or when Haleth tells me what his father tells him.

And there have been rumors flying wildly through the city. Rumors that Saruman, the white wizard who has long been Rohan's ally, has turned against us, and that a shadow is growing in the East, in Mordor. Cadwyn and I like to eavesdrop when we cannot ask Haleth for tidings. Some, in their conversations, have denied these dire whispers, and put them off as the figment of a drunken imagination.

"Pah!" They exclaim. "Saruman has only helped us before. Why should he hurt us now? _Some _people are not content unless they are stirring up silly rumors."

"But," their frightened companions say, "They say, 'Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger.' Who truly knows Saruman? He has not spoken to the king in years! Can you ignore the attacks on the Westfold?"

For large groups of Orcs have begun attacking villages in the Westfold, burning them and driving out the inhabitants. More refugees pour into Edoras by the day, many of them newly orphaned children. It is hard not to cry when I watch them arriving at the orphanage, confused and frightened, suddenly alone in the world. Cadwyn and I try our best to comfort them and make them laugh, but our efforts are often in vain.

I pulled back gently on the reins, and Ruim stopped. "Do you think we have come too far?" I asked Haleth.

He turned around in his saddle and looked towards Edoras, small under the great shadow of the mountains just behind it. "No," he said. "I can still see Meduseld clearly. But we shouldn't go any further than this, to be safe."

I nodded. Hama had allowed us to ride outside the gates only on the condition that we stayed within clear sight of the city.

"The sky is clear today," I said.

"The sky is often clear," said Haleth, looking sideways at me. "Why do you notice?"

"Well, Cadwyn and I heard yesterday that the world is coming to an end-"

"_What?_"

"We eavesdropped outside the Mourning Mare."

"Eiryn, you should really stop doing that. You hear so much nonsense," Haleth said, exasperated.

"I don't _believe_ it all," I said. "I only mentioned the sky because I wonder how people can say the world is ending when the sky looks so... peaceful. I always thought the world would end in violence and darkness, not this." I motioned towards the blue sky.

"There _is_ violence and darkness," Haleth said. "The attacks on the villages? Theoden's absence? Saruman's silence? These are all bad tidings, but they do not stop the sun from shining, nor the sky from being blue. The world could end on a day like this."

"Haleth, stop that!" I exclaimed, slightly alarmed. "I thought you said you didn't believe any tavern rumors, and now you're saying that the world could end-"

"Eiryn," Haleth said, laughing, "I was only joking. You are too easily frightened."

"But you meant the first part," I said. "When you talked about the bad tidings."

"Yes," said Haleth gravely. "I am afraid more bad is happening than good right now."

His tone, usually so pleasant, now made me feel intensely gloomy, and I wished for nothing more than to throw off that feeling. "Haleth, please, may we sing?" I asked.

"You don't need to ask my permission," Haleth said.

I began to sing, at first quietly, but louder as my confidence grew. We were out on the plain, after all. Who would hear me? It was a drinking song, sung often and loudly in the Mourning Mare, the tavern not seventy-five yards from the orphanage (though of late, Cadwyn and I had heard little singing).

Haleth joined in on the second verse. Our voices grew loud and jolly. As we swung into the chorus, Haleth turned Mared around and abruptly broke off the tune, his face falling. My voice faltered and stopped, and I turned around in the saddle to see what he had seen.

I understood immediately why Haleth had stopped singing: a group of at least one hundred refugees, most of them women, children, and the elderly, had just emerged from behind a small hill a little beyond where we stood. I sat very still, mortified that they had heard our merrymaking. I looked sideways at Haleth. He was sitting still and very straight in his saddle. Then, seemingly making up his mind, he dismounted, gave Mared's reins to me, and approached the mounted woman at the head of the group.

"Shall my friend and I ride ahead and give news of your arrival, or shall we guide you to the gate?" He asked.

I dismounted, hurried over to Haleth, and tapped him on the shoulder. "I'll guide them; you go and announce them," I whispered."You _are_ a page, after all."

He nodded, mounted Mared, and began to canter back to the city.

"He has gone ahead to announce you," I told the woman. "I will accompany you. But first, is there anyone here in need of a horse?" It might have been a foolish thing to ask; they did already have several horses with them, but all had riders.

A woman very heavy with child emerged slowly from the crowd. "Here," I said, and helped her into the saddle. "Are you ready?"

"Yes," she said quietly. "It is very good of you to lend me your horse."

"Think nothing of it," I said. "She is all I have to offer. Now then..." I turned back to the group. "Er... come with me, please." I started to lead Ruim and the woman slowly toward the city gates. The woman Haleth had talked to quickly drew up beside me.

"What were you doing alone on the plain?" she asked in a low voice. "That is dangerous, especially for two as young as you."

"We were going riding," I said. "We were given strict instructions not to pass beyond sight of the city."

"I see," she said, though her tone suggested that Haleth and I had been in the wrong.

"Where are you from?" I asked.

"Aldburg," she replied. "We have been traveling along the Great West Road for days now. The men are at home, still defending the city."

"Ah," I said, because I could not think of anything else to say.

I glanced back at the children. I tried to tell whether they were orphaned and would soon be coming to live with us. Sometimes it was easy to tell by the faces, so sad and forlorn that it seemed their owners had never smiled. This time it was more difficult; these children's expressions seemed impossible to read: unhappy, but not anguished as I had seen orphaned children look before.

We walked the rest of the way to Edoras in silence but for the dull thudding of the horses' hooves on the grass. When we came within fifty yards of the gate, the guards opened it, and several people behind me cried for joy or exhaustion, I knew not which.

As soon as we entered the gates, citizens of Edoras rushed in on all sides, offering to take in this family or that one, and find a stable for their horse. My friend Freyda, a girl of seventeen who had recently gotten married and left the orphanage, invited the pregnant woman on Ruim to her house. The woman thanked her profusely, but Freyda waved her away and said, "I could do with some female company," and winked at me as she helped the woman off of Ruim. I smiled, and then turned, mounted Ruim, and trotted across the cobbled main path and around the edge of the city until I reached the messengers' stables. Haleth had taught me about the back routes long ago, and they served me well when the main path was crowded as it was now. At the stables, I gave the mare a quick brush, made sure she had grain and water, and set off to the orphanage on foot.

When I got there, I saw the woman who had been leading the party of refugees standing by the door. Gwethawyn, the venerable head nurse, was talking with her. Gwethawyn spotted me coming down the hill from the main path and called to me to hurry.

I ran to her side. "What is it?" I asked. "Are there many new children?"

"Ten," she said. "And-"

"_Ten?_" I couldn't believe it. We had never had that many new children at once before. Five had come in the past week, and the nurses and Cadwyn and I had sewn until our fingers ached making bedrolls for them, but ten! Haleth's grave words were becoming more true by the day.

"Yes, so I need you to hurry." She pressed four silver coins into my hand. "Go to the weaver. Tell him we need all the sturdy cloth he has."

"This isn't enough," I said, too quietly for the refugee woman to hear. I could tell that Gwethawyn knew this already.

"Tell him we will provide bread to his family for two weeks in return." Her face was set, her decision final.

I stared at the old nurse, shocked. "But that will mean you and Anawyn will go without food again. You can't do that!"

Gwethawyn gave me a fierce look. "I will do what I must," she said firmly. I knew I couldn't argue anymore. "Now go! We need to finish their bedrolls before sundown."

I turned and ran up a short incline to the main path, then followed it about halfway up the city, until I reached a small, sturdy stone building. A sign adorned with a painting of a bolt of cloth hung over the door. I pulled it open and stepped inside.

Baldor the weaver looked up from a length of fabric he had been unrolling on a table. "So soon?" he asked. "You came here just last week."

"Yes," I said, "But new children have arrived, and we need to make more bedrolls."

"How many?" He asked.

"Ten," I replied. His eyes widened. "We need all the bedroll cloth you have. We only have these to pay you," I held out the four coins. "But we will provide your family with bread for two weeks in return for the cloth."

Baldor stared at the money for a moment, his eyes still wide, then shook his head, taking the coins from me. "I cannot accept so much from you," he said. "You have ten more children on your hands, and I know how hard Gwethawyn works already."

"Then..." I knew that it would be hard on Baldor to give us the fabric with only the four coins for payment. "Then let us give you bread for one week," I said. "Please. It is the least we can do."

Baldor hesitated a moment, then shook his head. "I will not hear of it," he said. "Now, I have three bolts here. If you do not waste fabric, that ought to be enough for ten bedrolls. But you'll need help carrying them. Here." He hefted one large bolt into my hands and tucked one smaller one under each of his arms. I opened the door with one hand, carefully balancing the cloth in my other arm, and stepped out sideways. Baldor followed me, shutting the door behind him.

"Lead on," he said. Since the traffic had cleared up considerably, I struck out down the main path toward the orphanage. As I went, I thought about how the evening would probably go: Gwethawyn would likely be able to make two bedrolls, and Anawyn could make three, nimble-fingered as she was. Cadwyn and I could probably make two each. That left two.Perhaps Cadwyn and I could sew them in turns. Perhaps we would go without. It would not be too terrible; winter was not yet here, and we could use the unused fabric to cover ourselves if worse came to worse.

I spotted the orphanage up ahead, through the crowd of people still on the path. We turned off the path and followed a short, sloping trail of flattened grass directly to the orphanage door.

I knocked by way of kicking the door gingerly with my boot. "I'm back," I called. The fabric was beginning to feel very heavy.

Cadwyn answered the door. "Oh good," she said. "Gwethawyn's been laying out all the sewing things. Can you believe it? My fingers will be so sore!"

"Well, yes, er… help me!" The bolt of cloth overbalanced and I almost dropped it on the ground, but Cadwyn caught it. She helped me carry it inside, and Baldor followed us in.

Before the hearth of the fireplace that sat in the middle of the large main room, Gwethawyn had indeed laid out needles and a large spool of thread. She and Anawyn knelt before them, talking. Baldor and Cadwyn and I placed our bolts down a safe distance from the flames. The nurses looked around at us. Gwethawyn stood.

"Oh! You're back. Good." She examined the fabric. "This should be enough," she said. Standing up, she clasped one of Baldor's hands in both of her own. "Thank you very much," she said. "We are very grateful for your understanding."

Baldor waved her thanks away and turned his attention to the spool of thread. "That will not be enough," he said.

"It will have to do," Gwethawyn said. "We can make it stretch."

Baldor shook his head. "Not far enough for ten bedrolls," he said. "I'll bring a spool to you from my shop. It will only take a moment."

Anawyn said from the hearth, "Gwethawyn, let him. I told you this wouldn't last us."

Gwethawyn relented. "Very well. Thank you. Cadwyn, why don't you go with him and bring the thread back here?"

When they had disappeared, she told me, "We must start now if we are to finish all of these before nightfall. You know how to proceed."

I did. Cadwyn and I had become experts at bedroll-sewing in the past month. I ran to fetch our sharpest knife from the cupboard at the corner of the room that servedfor our kitchen. When I returned to the hearth, Gwethawyn had partially unrolled one of the bolts on the floor, so that there was a large flat expanse of brown fabric. I knelt near the cloth. Gwethawyn had been making careful approximate measurements with her hands. She pointed to a spot and said, "Here's five feet, as near as I can make it."

I looked at her, confused. "Shouldn't bedrolls be six feet long?" I asked.

"Not if they are for a very small child," Gwethawyn said. I was about to protest that children grow, and had opened my mouth to say so when she held up her hand. "These are going to be hurriedly made, and you know that what's made in haste doesn't last long. Consider these temporary. When this season is over, and when orphans perhaps stop flooding in, we shall get more material and make proper bedrolls, ones the children won't outgrow, and give these to the smaller children. You see?"

I nodded. It was a reasonable plan. Gwethawyn was the best woman in Edoras at making do. I ran the knife slowly down the width of the fabric, cutting as straight a line as I could. We used that length of fabric to measure all the others.

Just as I began to cut the final length, the door burst open and Cadwyn walked in, followed by Freyda and her pregnant houseguest, who smiled when she caught my eye.

"I'm back," Cadwyn announced, placing two large spools of thread on the hearth. "And I've brought help. This is Rowena." She gestured toward the pregnant woman, whom Freyda was helping onto a stool.

Gwethawyn looked at Rowena with concern. "Are you sure you want to help?" she asked.

Rowena nodded. "Oh yes," she said. "It's best to keep busy. Besides, I am a fast sewer, though I say it myself."

"Then thrice welcome!" I said, finishing the cut. "If only you knew how many, many bedrolls we've sewn."

"I can only imagine," she said. "How many did you say you needed?"

"Ten by sunset," I said.

"Oh my," Rowena said. "Quickly, hand me a needle. Let us see how many we can make before nightfall. Let it be a contest of skill. Of skill with a needle and thread, those noblest of all tools."

I threaded a needle and handed it to Rowena, smiling. She obviously loved words and wit and tales, just like Haleth and Cadwyn and I.

Once the needles and thread had been distributed there was silence among the sewers at the hearth while we all concentrated on our beginning stitches. Once we had gotten into our rhythms, we began to talk. Rowena told us lively stories about her childhood in the Westfold: how she and her brother had once gotten lost on the plains and slept in the shadow of a hill, how they used to revere as leaders those boys who could creep into Fangorn Forest and chip a bit of bark off one of the trees.

She continued to tell stories for hours, it seemed. I was startled to glance down at my stitching and find that I was almost done with my first bedroll. I finished the last stitches, tied off the thread and reached for another pair of cloths. Cadwyn and Gwethawyn had started on their second bedrolls already, and I hurried to start, striking up a quick rhythm even though my fingers were already beginning to ache.

After about ten stitches, I found it unbearable to push the needle through the thick fabric with my thumb, which had gone red and had dimples in it where the needle's blunt end had pushed into it. I cast around for the scraps of fabric that had been left over after the cutting was done. Finding a long strip, I wound it around and around my thumb and tied it as best I could with one hand. It was an old trick, something Gwethawyn had shown me, and as I started sewing again, pleased at how I could barely feel the poke of the needle, I wondered why it had taken me this long to use it.

Rowena finished speaking with a little sigh, and we sewed in silence for a while. I longed to say something interesting, but I couldn't think of anything. Rowena's stories had been so interesting, and now my mind was dull, bored. I stitched automatically, and thought of nothing.

Finally Cadwyn rescued me from my stupor. "How was your ride today?" she asked.

"Beautiful," I said. "Though rather short."

"Yes, I imagine we surprised you," Rowena said, a knowing smile on her face.

"Oh… yes." I blushed, and Cadwyn looked at me suspiciously.

"What?" she asked me. "What happened?"

"We were… we were singing, and they came into sight around a hill, and… startled us." It was the truth.

"What were you singing?" Cadwyn asked. "It couldn't have been too bad."

"It was the one from the Mourning Mare, the one they all liked to sing," I said, feeling my face grow even hotter. "The one about the ladies of Edoras."

Cadwyn stared at me for a moment, incredulous, and then almost fell over laughing. Freyda giggled. She had often sung that very song with us as we roamed around the city. I sat and sewed and waited sheepishly for them to stop.

"You mean-" Cadwyn said, between gasps, "You mean _that_ one?"

I nodded, and she dissolved again, her eyes crinkling into slits and her face turning quite red. I imagined we must look rather alike, both with our red faces, both for vastly different reasons.

Anawyn looked sideways at me. "Eiryn?"

I sighed, hoping we would forget this soon. We had kept the tavern songs a strict secret from the nurses, for fear of this very reaction. "It's nothing. It's just a sort of bawdy song," I mumbled.

Anawyn nodded. "I see." Even she seemed to be suppressing a smile. Only Gwethawyn did not look amused.

"And where have you been listening to these bawdy songs? Am I to think you and Cadwyn frequent taverns?" she asked.

"No!" I said, startled. "No, I've never even set foot inside! We just…" how to simply divulge Cadwyn's and my secret habit of listening at doors? "We heard it from outside."

Gwethawyn saw the whole truth immediately. "You were eavesdropping," she said severely.

"No!" I said desperately. "We… you cannot help but hear when you walk past, they sing so loudly."

"The music _is_ quite loud," said Anawyn mildly, and Cadwyn nodded helpfully. I hoped furiously that Gwethawyn would let the matter drop.

Gwethawyn gave me a piercing look, and then said simply, "You'd do better not to listen to the ravings of drunk men."

"They're the only ravings that are loud enough to hear from outside," Cadwyn said.

I nearly choked. She was not helping. But Rowena laughed, and said, "I did the same thing when I was your age, and even younger. Of course, my parents always knew when I was just around the corner, so when they knew I was listening, they would spin fantastic tales full of nonsense, and I would go and tell my friends of the horrible things that lurked in our barns and the flying horses that landed on the roof of Meduseld every night to sleep."

"The talk is not nearly so entertaining now," Cadwyn remarked.

"No indeed," I said. "The end of the world is coming, they say."

"Always they have said the end of the world approaches, and has it yet come?" Anawyn asked. "You mustn't trouble yourself with such rumors, for that is all they are."

But what about the Westfold? I longed to ask. That terror and destruction was real. We sat here trying to provide for ten parentless children as a result of it. I opened my mouth and the words were almost out when I remembered Rowena. I bit my tongue hastily. The poor woman's home had likely been ravaged by now. How could I speak of that, when she was sitting here so happily?

Luckily, Freyda distracted us from the topic of ghastly rumors and brought us back around to the subject of the ride. "You went riding about Edoras?" she said. "I didn't see you."

"Outside of Edoras, actually," I said.

Freyda looked shocked. "Who in this Middle-earth gave you permission to roam outside the city?" she demanded, suddenly sounding frighteningly like Gwethawyn. "Anyone could have swept you off with them, any Orc, any foul beast. That is no place for a girl to be riding about alone!"

"I wasn't alone," I said quickly. "Haleth was with me."

"The door guard's son?" Freyda said with some suspicion. "And he is a suitable companion for you? Could he protect you from what might have happened?"

"He _is_ a page," I said, somewhat defensively. "He will soon become a squire and serve his father at the doors of Meduseld."

"Hm," said Freyda, unconvinced. She had never seemed very fond of Haleth. Anawyn had told me that she looked at him as a mother looks at her daughter's suitors: "She didn't fancy such a scruffy, male creature in the company of such fine girls as you and Cadwyn," she had said. I had turned bright red at this, imagining Haleth composing love poems in secret and reciting them under a full moon.

"And he has practiced with swords since he was five years old," said Cadwyn.

"And now he has Eiryn wanting to go and kill herself in battle," Freyda growled.

"That's not true!" I said. Haleth had been teaching Cadwyn and me swordplay occasionally for three years now. We practiced whenever we saw each other, whenever he was not too tired from his own training. I had no desire to actually battle; however, if Lady Eowyn could learn to defend herself, then so could I.

"Oh no? What's going on, then, when I go to collect water and see you and Cadwyn playing at sticks like little boys?" Freyda asked.

"Just practicing," I said. "What if we should need to defend ourselves?"

"You talk as though you will ride off to Gondor tomorrow," said Freyda.

"I hear there is much trouble near Gondor of late," said Rowena suddenly, laying down her completed bedroll. I took it from her and placed it in a pile with the five that were already finished. As I laid it down, I examined the stitching. Rowena's stitches were beautiful, small and even. Suddenly I felt very inadequate as I thought of my own bedrolls. They weren't shoddy, but they were far from exquisite.

"Yes," said Freyda darkly. "And have you heard about thetrouble in our southern fields? Someone has been stealing horses from Rohan."

Rowena looked shocked. "I did not know," she said. "I did not know Gondor would stoop so low."

"It may not be Gondor," Freyda said. "Whoever the thief, he takes only the black horses."

This sent a chill up my spine. It could have meant nothing; the thief could just have preferred black horses. But I preferred to think of it as more portentous than that. Few dared to steal horses from the Rohirrim; we had made sure there were plenty of stories about the swift and terrible justice we brought to thieves, about the terrible breach of honor that horse thievery was. But surely there were some who were evil enough to spite these dire warnings. And evil people would most likely come from an evil place. A place like Mordor. The rumor of the shadow in the east was the one that was whispered very, very quietly within the city, and the fear in their voices as the people talked of it frightened me whenever I heard them. I vowed to myself each time that I would ask Haleth whether it was true or not. I had meant to ask him on our ride today, but the sight of the refugees had driven it out of my mind.

Now I finished my second bedroll, laid it down on top of Rowena's, stretched mightily, and flexed my fingers. As I had expected, they were quite sore. Wincing slightly as my fingers bent, I untied and unwound my makeshift thimble from my thumb. Gwethawyn stood and placed her finished second bedroll on top of mine and went to help Anawyn prepare supper. Only Freyda and Cadwyn were still sewing.

I hovered for a moment, indecisive, then got up and followed Rowena to help with supper. My legs protested at changing their position after so long sitting. The ride that morning was beginning to catch up to me: I could not ride very often as the orphanage owned no horses, and my legs were completely unused to the feel of a horse beneath them.

Anawyn quickly put me to work stirring the broth over the fire, tossing in the vegetables and bits of salted meat she handed to me. Presently Cadwyn got up and took risen dough from the pantry, placed it on a large wooden paddle, and put the paddle into the oven.

It only took a few chunks of chicken in the pot to begin to spread a delicious aroma throughout the main room. My stomach growled just looking at the soup in the pot: I had not eaten that day since my breakfast of an apple.

It took another half hour for dinner to be ready. By that time, we had recruited the older children to place the mismatched and chipped plates and bowls upon the large table in the dining room across from the main room. Freyda and Rowena had embraced us and left, for Freyda had her own dinner to make.

We gathered round the table, me carefully lugging the hot soup pot round and ladling a portion into each child's bowl. So many of the new children looked up at me with round, forlorn eyes, expressions of complete hopelessness, and I tried to reassure them. "It's chicken soup," I told them, smiling even though the look in their eyes made me want to cry. "Anawyn's and my specialty. With lots of carrots and- and leeks." I chocked back a sob, hitched the smile back to my face, and continued on.

I had been very liberal with the portions, thinking the newcomers ought to have plenty to eat. By the time I got to Cadwyn I realized that her bowl would be the last. There would be none left for me. I had been so looking forward to it, too. I poured the last bit into her bowl, then hurried into the main room and put the pot aside to be scrubbed later.

When I slipped into my seat at the table next to Cadwyn, I saw that I had no plate or bowl either. I supposed, then, that it was just as well there had not been any soup for me.

Cadwyn looked at me apologetically. "There wasn't enough of anything," she said. "Here. Have some soup." She slid her bowl over towards me.

I shook my head.

"Don't be stupid," she said. "You made it. And you went riding earlier. And you gave me so much that the bowl nearly overflowed."

"Really?" I hadn't thought there was much left. I raised the bowl to my lips and sipped gratefully. The soup was good, uncommonly so- or perhaps I was just more hungry than usual.

I set the soup back in front of Cadwyn. "I'll have a good deal of bread, and that should be all right," I said. In the middle of the table, the breadboard had only two slices left upon it. I started then to realize just how hard this time might be on us. The loaf had been unusually big; Gwethawyn had been preparing more food at mealtimes lately, "Just in case," she had said darkly. I had thought it morbid, but now I was glad of her forethought. Haldor, a seven-year-old boy, took one of the slices.

I hesitated. It seemed somehow rude to take the last slice. Cadwyn noticed me debating with myself. "Eiryn," she said exasperatedly, and reached for the slice. Her fingers landed on it at the same time as those of a new little girl on the other side of the table. They froze like that for a moment, arms outstretched. Cadwyn appeared to think quickly, and then said kindly, "Why don't we break it in half?"

"Just give it to her, Cadwyn," I said. There was other food to be had. Besides, it felt good to give to other people, especially to someone like the girl, who had just lost everything.

Cadwyn glared at me. Her hand still lay on the slice of bread. "You've earned it," she said, carefully tearing the piece in two. She held out the pieces to the girl. "Which one do you want?" she asked kindly. The girl plucked one from Cadwyn's left hand. My friend sat back on the bench and handed me the other piece. "You see?" she said. "Easy."

"But she could have had a whole piece," I protested.

Cadwyn breathed out heavily through her nose. "Eiryn," she said. "For once, please, stand up for yourself. It's only a piece of bread. You practice swordplay all the time. You practice attacking people, yet you're afraid to take half a piece of bread? You help everyone in this orphanage. You sewed bedrolls today and made the soup we're all eating. Don't act as though you don't deserve the food. You're being like Gwethawyn now."

"Cadwyn!" But it was true. Gwethawyn had given up food before, but that had been out of necessity: it had been winter, and there had been fewer donations than ever.

"You think you're being noble," Cadwyn continued. "But it's just stupid. Will you be happy when you starve to death? Go on, eat the rest of the soup. I'm finished."

Despite what she'd just said, I was about to protest, but I bit my tongue quickly and took up the bowl. I had finished the bread quickly, and now I drained the soup in two gulps.

I sighed, setting the bowl back down on the table. "Thank you," I said.

I then set to counting the children. The dining hall had never in my memory been so crowded. There were ten newcomers, all very quiet. Then there were the five who had come the week before. Then there were the eight of us who had been there for years: Cadwyn and me, little Branwen and her older brother Haldor, Geollyn and Deollyn the eleven-year-old twins, Theowen, nine only a month ago, and Lathwen, who was eight but seemed much older. That made twenty-three children, more than I had ever seen at the orphanage at once. All of those children with only the two nurses to watch over them.

Everyone seemed to have finished eating, so Cadwyn and I, as was our habit, got up and began to clear the table, deftly stacking plate upon plate and bowl upon bowl. As we clattered quietly, Gwethawyn cleared her throat a bit. Everyone turned to look at her.

"To you who have newly arrived," she said. "Welcome. I trust that every one of the children here will do his or her best to make this place a home for you."

Cadwyn and I had heard this speech the week before, and many times before that, whenever new children had arrived. We quietly sidled out of the dining room, our full stacks teetering. I thought it interesting that never had that speech been directed toward Cadwyn or me. We had been infants when some travelers discovered us by our parents' bodies on the road and brought us here. This was where we had grown up, Gwethawyn and Anawyn like aunts and Freyda like an older sister, and all the playmates in the world we could have wished for.

I slipped outside into the gleaming, golden sunset to get water for the washing, and by the time I had returned, Gwethawyn had finished speaking and Geollyn and Deollyn were ready with rags to help scrub out the wooden bowls and plates. I took up a rag and washed methodically, all the while watching the new children being given their bedrolls and shyly beginning to talk to the other children.

"Can you imagine what it must be like?" I asked Cadwyn, who was watching them too.

"No," she said. "But it must be something like losing Gwethawyn and Anawyn and this house all in one day."

We finished the dishes without speaking and put them away. The day's tasks were at an end for me and for the other children. I felt restless and longed to go out, to talk to Haleth again. Our conversation that morning had been cut short by the arrival of the refugees, and I had not gotten to ask him the question that had been slowly smoldering at the back of my mind for so many weeks now. Now seemed the perfect opportunity.

I approached Gwethawyn. "I-if there's nothing to be done here," I asked, "May I go on a walk?"

Gwethawyn smiled wearily. "Go ahead, and do not trouble Haleth unduly."

"How did you know I was going to see Haleth?"

"Where else in Edoras would you go?" Gwethawyn said, shaking her head. "Remember, you're to be back within an hour of sundown."

"Yes, madam," I said, and hurried to get my cloak. As I fastened it around my shoulders, I spotted Cadwyn, rocking the smallest of the new children on her lap.

"I'm going to see Haleth," I told her. "Would you like to come?"

Cadwyn put a finger to her lips and then pointed to the little girl. "She's sleeping," she said and shook her head. "Tell him that I told him hello," she added.

I smiled, nodded, and slipped out of the door and into the twilight. The only remaining trace of the sun was a line of yellow sky above the mountains to the west. I tramped up the well-beaten path through the long grass up a rise to the main path, and then trudged up through the city. Despite the clear skies that day, Edoras was cold and a steady chill breeze blew, lifting my hair into my face and pushing my cloak against my legs.

Everywhere, the city already seemed to have shut down. Shutters were closed; lights in windows were out or dim. Only the tavern was well lit, but as I peeked in through the cracked-open door, I could see no one inside but the old barman, wiping clean a table.

At any other time, people would have only just begun to stop the day's business. I would have seen people on the path, embracing each other and wishing each other goodnight. But today, I passed only two people on my way up to the highest level of the city, and they both had their heads bent against the wind and were clutching their cloaks about them.

Short of breath, I arrived at the top plateau of Edoras, in the middle of which sat Meduseld, by day like a golden beacon, its thatched roof bright and gleaming. But now it, like the rest of the city, was dark. I turned off the path, crossing a circle of large houses in which people of importance to King Theoden lived: messengers, guards, the palace horse masters. In the left part of this circle was Haleth's house, and I approached it gladly.

I hammered on the thick-knotted wooden door of the house, stamping my feet to get some feeling back into my toes.

The door opened a crack and Hama's face appeared in the gap.

"Eiryn!" he said, looking shocked. "It is late. Surely you should be at the orphanage?"

"Oh, no, I have permission from Gwethawyn," I said. "I wanted to talk to Haleth. Our talk on the ride was cut short."

He nodded and turned, presumably to call Haleth, but the boy had crept up right behind his father. Hama jumped.

"Don't, Haleth," he said severely.

"I'm sorry, Father," he said, and he quite looked it. I wondered if he was telling the whole truth. It was hard to tell sometimes, with Haleth.

Then Haleth turned to me. "Eiryn!" he exclaimed. "You're up late."

"It isn't so late," I protested. "The sun hasn't even fully gone down. Besides, I have something to ask you."

"Well, do come inside, said Hama, beginning to swing the door wide.

"Oh, no," Haleth insisted. "The barrels are on the leeward side of the house; we can talk there." He looked pointedly at me, and I was sure he could see my flushed cheeks, even in the dark. "Unless, of course, you're cold?"

I shook my head. "No, I'm quite all right," I said.

"Very well," said Hama. "But you must not stay out long."

"We will not," said Haleth cheerfully. Hama closed the door, and we turned and walked around to a side of the house lined with barrels. On this side, the house acted as a windbreak, and it suddenly felt much less cold. I sank gratefully onto a barrel with a top.

Haleth settled himself on another barrel, drawing his knees up to his chest and pulling his cloak around them.

"Now," he said. "You said you have something to ask me."

I nodded.

"It must be serious," he said. "Otherwise, why would you climb all the way up here?"

Suddenly I felt foolish. The question wasn't important- probably not in Haleth's view. It just wouldn't let me forget it, and it made me afraid every time I thought about it. Haleth knew more about Middle-earth than anyone else I knew; I simply thought he would be the one with the answer.

"Well…" I said. I hesitated for a moment and then blurted the question out in a rush: "Is there really a shadow growing in Mordor?"

Haleth sighed and studied the stars. "It's difficult to say," he said. "I've never been there. And I don't hear as many rumors as you and Cadwyn do either."

I blushed. "That's because you hear real tidings, real things from real messengers," I said. "What real things are people saying about Mordor?"

"Only that there's a shadow growing there," said Haleth. "Really, then, I suppose I know as much as you do."

"Oh." I was disappointed. I told myself that there was no way Haleth could have known. When most of the adults in the city didn't know truth from hearsay, how could a teenaged boy? I suppose Haleth knew more about Middle-earth than anyone else I knew; I simply thought he would be the one with the answer.

"Well… there is one thing that I might know," he said. "I talk to Neomer sometimes, when he comes back from advising Theoden."

"_King_ Theoden," I said.

"Right," said Haleth. "I asked him about Mordor once, when I'd overheard the name and didn't know what it meant. He said that it was always an evil land, and that even he would not dare to go there."

I nodded. It made sense.

"But he also told me a story about a dark lord who used to rule there," Haleth continued. "The name has long been forgotten, but the story goes that he became so powerful that he controlled nearly all of Middle-earth. Gondor, Rohan, Mirkwood far to the north, everything. But the people resisted, and fought back against him, and he fell."

"Fell?" I repeated. "That means he died… didn't he?"

"I think so," Haleth said. "But Neomer said there were whispers that he barely survived."

"How long ago did this happen?" I asked him. I could recall no tales in which a dark lord ruled over Middle-earth.

"During the Second Age," Haleth said. "The very beginning, perhaps. Neomer wasn't too certain."

"No one can survive for a thousand years," I said, not entirely believing myself. "Can they?"

Haleth shook his head. "No ordinary man could. But I don't know if he was a man, or an Elf, or… or something else. No one knows anything much about him."

I stared at Haleth, wondering what to make of this. It had started a gnawing of fear in the depths of my belly. Something so powerful that it could take over all Middle-earth- or almost all of it- and something which could not, or would not, be killed? I shuddered.

Haleth looked at me with concern. "Are you cold?" he asked. "Should we go in?"

I shook my head. "It's just… that story," I said. "It's awful. What if that dark lord is the thing that's causing all this trouble? All of those black horses being stolen? All these attacks? Maybe it's all the dark lord's fault! And what if he can't die? He'll take over Middle-earth again, and everything will turn horrible and we won't be able to stop him, not with all the-"

"Eiryn!" Haleth interrupted. "It's only a story," he said firmly. "Nothing for you to worry about. I'm sure that the whispers were only whispers. Remember when the stable hands all swore that Shadowfax would be back? They were making that up. They cannot control him. I'll bet someone made up the story of the dark lord living and told it to everyone they met, just to scare them. He lived a thousand years ago. No one can live for a thousand years."

"An Elf can," I said quietly.

"But I have never heard of such a thing as a dark lord of the Elves," said Haleth reassuringly. "And neither have you. And now I think we'd best go inside, before the darkness plays with your imagination any more."

"I'd better go back, actually," I said. "I can't be gone long. We got ten new children today-"

"Ten?" Haleth said, incredulous.

"Yes, and we were sewing bedrolls for hours," I said with a rueful grin, holding up my fingers, pink and stiff with cold and sore with stitching.

"If only I'd known, I could have given them some of the soldiers' in the barracks," he said. "There are stacks of bedrolls that are never used."

"Thank you," I said. "It's a good thought. But we have all we need."

"Wait! Surely you'll be needing more bread! I'll tell my mother to give me her extra loaves, and I can run them down to you every morning."

"That's so kind of you," I said. "Gwethawyn will protest, but you must keep on."

"I'll keep that in mind," he said, smiling. Then his face suddenly grew serious. "Would you like me to go back to the orphanage with you?"

I shook my head. "No. It's late. You should stay here."

He put his hands on my shoulders and looked me straight in the eyes. "Don't worry about what I told you, Eiryn," he said. "It's just an old story. They never even bothered to remember his name!"

I nodded. "It's just a ghost story," I said, more confidently than I felt.

"Good," said Haleth.

"Good night," I said. "Ah yes, and Cadwyn told me to tell you hello from her."

"Well, hello to Cadwyn," he said. "Good night, Eiryn." We embraced quickly, and then I turned and departed the circle of houses with a wave and started down the path again.

I arrived, cold and windswept, at the orphanage fifteen minutes later. All the way home, I'd felt as though I was being watched. My eyes had darted back and forth between the dark spaces on either side of the path, seeing movement where there was none. I was almost running by the time I reached the slope of grass leading down to the orphanage.

I shut the door quietly behind me, hung up my cloak, shivering, and looked into the main room. The floor was full of sleeping children. The fire had died to embers. Cadwyn was sitting by it on a tiny stool, poking at the embers listlessly with the tip of her shoe and staring into the ashes. She looked up when I came in.

"Eiryn! You're finally back!" She got up and made her way carefully through the sleeping children to me. "We're sleeping in the dining room with Gwethawyn and Anawyn; there's no more room in here. I've unrolled our bedrolls. Come on."

We crossed the entrance to the dining room, where the two nurses already lay asleep. Cadwyn had arranged the bedrolls on the large wooden table.

"Are you sure it will hold us?" I asked. We were a lot bigger and heavier than plates and bowls, after all.

"I tested it earlier," she said. "It's fine. And it will be like sleeping on a real bed."

I smiled in spite of myself. I could not remember ever sleeping in a real bed, though Haleth had one and said they were much preferable to bedrolls. I removed my shoes and climbed onto the table, feeling very precarious so high off the ground, and crouched and crawled into my bedroll. I had expected to lie awake worrying about the dark lord of Mordor for a long time, but it had been a long day, and the weariness from the ride and the long walk to and from Haleth's house quickly weighted down my mind with sleep..

* * *

A/N: At last! The real, good first chapter is up! Months and months of procrastinating and a week of just deciding to sit down and write have finally paid off! If you have any thoughts about this extremely long chapter (I will never again be at liberty to complain about story length), please review! Constructive criticism is welcome and necessary. Particularly, please tell me which bits are unnecessary, because I feel as though there must be something here I could have or should have cut out. Anyway, here's hoping you enjoyed your read. Cheers! 


	2. Bells and Hoofbeats

**Chapter Two**

**Bells and Hoofbeats**

* * *

When I awoke the next morning, it took me a long time to realize where I was. Half asleep, my eyes still closed, I wondered why the ground beneath me felt so hard. I squinted at the ceiling, which seemed closer than usual. I must be high up… but how? _Cadwyn!_

Suddenly I remembered the night before, and the crowded main room. Cadwyn and I had slept in the dining room, on the table. Finally, I mustered my energy and sat up, wincing at the soreness in my back. Sleeping on wood was even worse than sleeping on the ground. I fervently envied Haleth and his down mattress.

A cock crowed, far away and faint. There was no point in trying to sleep any longer. I wriggled out of my bedroll and hopped down onto the floor, my legs stiff and painful from the ride the day before, and put on my shoes. I had to hobble like an old man to the front door. When I had slipped outside, I took a long shuddering breath, letting the fresh, cold air wake me up.

The sky, so clear the day before, was covered over with a thick gray layer of cloud. There was one patch of clear sky, far away above the White Mountains, so that I could see the sun's uppermost edge cresting the peaks and gilding their snow yellow. The sun's warmth did not penetrate the clouds, and I shivered in the chill wind.

As I took a step to the side to shelter against the building, my foot knocked against the large wooden water-bucket. _I may as well,_ I thought. _It must be done soon anyway._ I scooped up the bucket, closed the front door behind me, and limped to the community well, in an open space shielded by the houses arranged around it.

Once I reached the well, I tied the bucket to the well rope and drew slowly, shivering and wishing I had thought to wear my cloak.

I filled the bucket and hefted it down from the well stones. It never seemed to grow any lighter, though from years of drawing water I should have grown stronger. I headed back round the side of the orphanage, the bucket swinging awkwardly and me trying to keep it from hitting my legs.

When I rounded the corner of the orphanage, I happened upon a sight that drove the weight of the bucket from my mind: horsemen were galloping at full tilt into the city, upwards along the main path. Horsemen normally mitigated their speed within the city for the safety of the citizens, but these must have been on an errand of supreme urgency.

But what was it? As they swept up the path past the orphanage, I shrank from them, even though I was well back from the road. Lord Eomer was at the group's head, carrying before him in the saddle a sleeping man, who swayed and shook with every movement of the horse.

Suddenly his head lolled towards me, so that I saw his face. Prince Theodred. It had to be. Had I not seen those features hundreds of times as he and his friends or his father rode out of the city? My breath caught for a shocked moment. The prince had left some months ago for the marshes to drive out the Orcs there. Eomer likewise had not been seen in the city for weeks. Theodred did not look well; in the brief glimpse I'd gotten of his face, it had been pale, sickly. Was he dead? No, he couldn't be.

Theodred had always been popular among the citizens of Edoras. The king's only son, the child of his age, it was obvious he would make a great king one day. And now- would he still? Was he dead or dying? There was no way of knowing.

Vaguely, I remembered my errand and felt again the weight of the bucket in my hands, and I wondered how to tell the nurses, how to make sense of what I had seen. I trudged back round the side of the orphanage to see Anawyn, her head turning back and forth.

When she saw me, she said, "Ah, thank you." She reached out an arm and took the bucket from me. We went back inside to find everyone awake, yawning but startled, a completely different scene from the one I had left.

"Did you see the horsemen?" Gwethawyn asked as Anawyn squeezed past her with the water bucket. "Who were they?"

"There was Lord Eomer," I said. "He was carrying Theodred in the saddle."

"What was the matter?"

"Theodred looked… pale and sick," I said. "He was asleep… I think."

Gwethawyn rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand. "Who else was there?"

I shook my head helplessly. "I didn't recognize any others," I said.

Cadwyn, who had been passing out apples to the children, caught my eye with a significant look. As soon as she had passed out apples to all of the children, she tossed one to me and we sat together in front of the small fire. I set my apple in my lap and clenched and unclenched my hands, watching my knuckles go from white to pink, white to pink again.

"What happened?" she asked.

I recounted what I had seen.

"And you say Theodred was definitely alive?" Cadwyn's lips were pursed thoughtfully.

"I thought he was," I said. "I mean, he had… color left."

"And- hold on- he had to have been alive," Cadwyn said decisively. "Or else they wouldn't have been in such a hurry."

"Of course," I said, wishing I'd thought of it first. There was hope, then.

That was how it had always seemed to be, throughout my entire life. No matter how bad things were, how many ribs I could count simply by looking down the front of my dress, there was always hope. When Gwethawyn grew frosty, as she often did now that we were older and no longer children she could coddle, Haleth was always there, him and Hama and Hanawyn, living up there on Edoras' grand plateau, their house like a beacon of warmth and love. There were always ready to lay one or two extra places at their table. Cadwyn and I tried to eat there more often than not. We tended to avoid the orphanage when we could - we, or at least I, had a sense, deep down, that the orphanage was not our home. No one could tell us where we had been born, or our parents' names. The thought that our parents had been friends or comrades made us feel that our friendship had been fated.

Gwethawyn passed us, carrying the little girl on her hip. "Bread, please, girls," she said as she sailed by. "Three loaves today, one for Baldor."

I breathed out in a huff. I had forgotten it was a baking day. Cadwyn and I got up from the warmth of the hearth, which melted away to a frosty chill as we crossed the room to the pantry in a corner.

Cadwyn, who was taller than I, stood on tiptoes to pull down flour and yeast from a high shelf and pass them to me. The flour sack was still quite heavy, which was a good sign. How long it would last, I did not want to think about.

We had baked the bread for years, ever since we were ten and Gwethawyn had taught us in order to lighten the nurses' load. We had a comfortable routine. I took cupfuls of water from the bucket and poured them into one of our two large mixing bowls, then stirred with my hands as Cadwyn added flour. Then she tossed in the barest pinch of salt and the yeast. I stirred and kneaded, working everything together. The motions were familiar and took my mind off of the dull gnaw of worry in my stomach- or was it hunger? I looked forward to the bread.

Once the mixture had become a mass of dough, I rubbed flour over it, pulled it in half, and gave half to Cadwyn to work with. We kneaded side by side, me not able to think of anything to say.

"Right," said Cadwyn finally, when she had punched her ball of dough into submission. She snatched the other bowl from the pantry, put her dough into it, and covered it with a cloth. I did the same. Now all we had to do was wait.

Cadwyn and I sat against the back wall of the orphanage, feeling the cold of the wood slowly seeping through our dresses into our backs. I picked stray morsels of dough off of my fingers and flicked them onto the floor.

Suddenly I sighed fitfully and turned to face Cadwyn. "Is he going to die?"

She shrugged. "How should I know?" she said wearily. "I didn't even see him."

"Do you remember when we met him?"

Cadwyn nodded. "He was so kind to us."

"He thought we were amusing," I said. "How I envy Haleth! He can sit up at the top of the city and talk to anyone he likes! Even Neomer the messenger; he told me so last night."

"That's what I meant to ask you," said Cadwyn suddenly, putting her chin in her hands. "What happened last night?"

"Absolutely nothing," I said. "I wasn't there long."

"Did you ask him about the rumors?" she asked quietly, looking around the see that all the children in the room were out of earshot.

"Yes," I said.

"And?"

"And he said that everyone up there says the shadow is growing in the east."

Cadwyn sucked in a breath.

"But he doesn't know why, or what's happening. He just- told me an old story about a dark lord who lived in Mordor."

"Who?" She whispered excitedly. "When?"

"He didn't know his name, but it was in the Second Age… maybe. He almost conquered Middle-earth."

"Really?" Cadwyn asked. "Are you sure?"

I shrugged, shook my head. "I don't know," I said. "Haleth didn't, either."

"But this dark lord didn't rule Middle-earth," Cadwyn said.

"No, the men and Elves stopped him. And he fell, but he might not have truly died."

"Might not have?"

"What did Haleth say? 'People whispered that he barely survived…' Something like that."

A feverish gleam shone in Cadwyn's eyes and she bit her lower lip in excitement. "That would explain everything!" she exclaimed. "The black horses, the attacks, everything!"

Suddenly Gwethawyn approached us, looking like a formidable statue towering over us where she sat.

"What is this about attacks?" she asked quietly.

"Haleth has been telling ghost stories," I said. "There's nothing to worry about," I added, when Gwethawyn looked unconvinced.

"Very well," said the nurse finally. "But remember, you may talk about these vile happenings as much as you please amongst yourselves, but you are not to breathe a word of it around the other children. If they come to me frightened out of their minds by talk of battle and death, I shall know who has told them."

With that she swept away. We both sighed, grim smiles on our faces.

"Whoops," said Cadwyn. "I forgot about Gwethawyn the peace-monger."

"I don't understand," I said. "I really don't know why she won't tell the children anything."

"She doesn't want them to be afraid, "Cadwyn said.

"Yes, but she shouldn't have to lie to them to make them feel safe!" We had had this conversation many times in recent months; it, like the bread, had a familiar routine.

"So you would have her telling them all about the Orcs and about how the prince went to spear walking piles of horse dung and got speared himself? You forget that children too can imagine how it would feel to have a sword put through-"

I put a hand to my stomach. I was myself imagining being stabbed through the middle, and I writhed and shuddered. "We can stop now," I said.

Cadwyn laughed. "Excitable girl," she said, only half chiding. "But really. It might not be that dangerous to tell the children the truth. There's so little of it about."

That much was true. Edoras, and therefore we, had lived for the past months with a certain insubstantial feeling of dread running beneath all of our daily goings-on. Hama had often told us that the only real fear was the fear of the unknown. No one in Edoras knew exactly what was going on, why the Orcs were so many and so bloodthirsty, or if they _did_ know, they would not tell us. Cadwyn and I maintained that if we only knew why things were happening, we would at least know what to fear.

"Exactly," I said, getting up restlessly and checking on the dough, "If I am to die, I would rather know exactly how."

Cadwyn got up and joined me at the flour-covered counter. "I wonder how many people are that fortunate," she said. "Was Theodred?"

"He's not dead," I said.

"It may only be a matter of time," said Cadwyn. She dusted off part of the counter and leaned against it. "Who will take the throne after Théoden, then, if Theodred dies?"

"Eomer," we said in unison.

I crossed to the small window set in the front wall of the orphanage. From it, I could see the main path, and coming down it with a look of grim worry-

"Haleth!" I ran to the front door and threw it open, Cadwyn following me.

"Where?" she said, and then saw him striding down the path and waved.

We ran out onto the trampled grass to meet him, then properly saw the expression on his face.

"Haleth?" I said, at the same time Cadwyn said, "What's wrong?"

Haleth merely shook his head and came inside with us. We sat down in front of the small morning fire. Haleth turned to us. "Theodred is dying," he said without preamble. "I thought you ought to know."

"But- I thought you were on duty today," I said. "How did you come down here?"

"Grima dismissed us boys," Haleth said gravely. "He said there was nothing we could do."

"Does everybody know?" Cadwyn asked.

Haleth shook his head. "Word will get around soon from the pages."

"Is there no hope of him getting better?" I asked. My throat was getting tighter, and I swallowed fiercely and tried to ignore the small burning feeling in the corners of my eyes. This was a person I actually knew, if vaguely, someone I had talked to and liked. Theodred had been the darling of Edoras, praised by all and well deserving of their admiration.

"I doubt it," said Haleth. "He looked awful when they carried him into Meduseld."

We all sighed together without meaning to.

There was an uncertain sort of clattering behind us. I turned around to see little Gonwyn standing on tiptoes, trying to tip one of the bread-bowls down to look inside of it. I sprang up and across the room almost before I could think and caught the bowl, steadying it between my hands. The swollen puff of dough wobbled dangerously, but did not fall out of the bowl. I set the bowl back on the counter with a relieved breath.

Gonwyn was looking at me, hurt. I crouched down to her level.

"You mustn't upset the dough while it's rising," I said.

"I only wanted to look." Her voice was small and timid.

"I know, dear, I know," I said. "Here." I wiped away some more flour from a section of the counter, took Gonwyn under the arms and lifted her to sit on the counter. "Now look." I peeled back the cloth from the dough. Haleth and Cadwyn came over to join us, and Cadwyn examined the other ball of dough and tipped it out onto the counter.

Gonwyn poked at the dough, then went to punch it down. Her small face shone with delight. I tipped the dough onto the counter and broke off a piece for her to play with, warning her that it was not to leave the counter.

Meanwhile, Cadwyn had broken her dough into two masses and given one to Haleth. He rolled up his sleeves and stared uncertainly at the dough sitting before him.

"Er…" he said very quietly.

Cadwyn, kneading away, looked over at him, took her hands out of the dough, and showed him the kneading motions. "Flip it over and punch in. Harder. Go on. Really press it; it's got to be well gone-over."

Haleth punched and flipped awkwardly, tongue between teeth. He looked up at us watching him and trying not to laugh.

"You do this every day?" he asked incredulously.

"Every week," I said.

Haleth shoved and turned, shoved and turned the dough. He was picking it up quickly. I traded my large ball of dough for his half-ball. Gonwyn stuck her dough back into the mass, hopped down off the counter, and went to play outside.

"It's so nice to have extra help," I said. "We need to start teaching the twins to bake so we won't have to."

"I don't trust them with my food," said Cadwyn darkly. "Better to slave away than eat what they'll most likely cook up."

I laughed. "But we thought Haleth couldn't bake, and look at him! It's hard to believe he is not Gleddan's apprentice."

Haleth gave me a mock sneer.

"We should have taught him ages ago," Cadwyn said.

Presently we all looked at each other and agreed that the dough had been kneaded enough. We lumped it back into two balls and into the bowls.

Just as Cadwyn laid the cloths over the dough, the front door burst open and the twins, Geollyn and Deollyn, tumbled in, red-faced and out of breath.

"I didn't!" Deollyn shouted.

"You did," Geollyn roared back. "You kept fighting after we'd already killed you, I saw you!"

"Boys!" I said in my most authoritative voice. They ignored me and went on arguing. The door stood wide open, forgotten.

Haleth walked calmly over to them and took them by the scruffs of their necks. They immediately froze and looked up at him. Their angry expressions melted into grins of glee.

"Haleth!" Deollyn exclaimed.

"Finally," said Geollyn.

But they fell silent when they got a proper look at Haleth's face. His back was to me, but I imagined he had put on a fearsome expression.

"Squabbling," he intoned, "Is most ignoble. I am disappointed in you."

They hung their heads. The twins hero-worshipped Haleth, and could not understand why he should want the company of two girls like us, whose heads were filled with air and other girlish things.

"Now," Haleth continued, sounding exactly like his father Hama when he had caught his son at some mischief, "Any fight, any argument, is a very serious thing. I expect you, as noble Rohirrim, to choose your fights wisely, and let small matters pass. Now go back to your game and be at peace!" He gave the boys an exuberant little shove towards the open door. They turned back to him.

"What's going on?" Deollyn demanded.

"You never come down here!" Geollyn gave Haleth a punch on the arm. "Go on, tell us. Why have you come?"

Haleth rubbed his arm in mock discomfort. "Prince Theodred is injured and very ill," he said simply.

Geollyn looked puzzled. "We haven't got any medicine," he said bluntly. "We've hardly got enough food for-"

"Geollyn," came Gwethawyn's voice from the doorway of the dining room. She was eyeing the boy severely.

The head nurse approached Haleth, and the twins slid off out the door and shut it behind them. It was suddenly dim in the entryway. Cadwyn and I came to stand beside Haleth.

"What are these tidings?" she asked. "Is it possible that I misheard?"

"Theodred is dying, ma'am." Haleth suddenly seemed much older, more respectful. "He is woefully wounded and has not much strength left. He…" he swallowed. "He may be dead by nightfall."

Gwethawyn closed her eyes, her face inscrutable. Finally she opened them to reveal an expression of very quiet pain. It was the expression she wore whenever new orphans arrived on our doorstep; it was the face that epitomized the last few months of refugees and missing kings and dead men.

"Another casualty," she said almost in a whisper. "And he would be just another slain in battle, had he not happened to be the king's son."

None of us knew what to say to this. Thankfully, Gwethawyn did not require a reply; she thanked Haleth for the news and returned to the dining room. We looked at each other awkwardly.

Finally Haleth broke the tension. "I should go," he said, turning to the door. "And that reminds me…" he bent down and shouldered his bag, pulling something out of it. He held out a package wrapped in light cloth.

"Go on," he said when we hesitated. "I promised."

I finally remember last night's conversation and Haleth's offer of bread. I took the package and threw the cloth off the top. Two loaves of bread sat in my arms. They still had vestiges of warmth about them, and they smelled heavenly.

Cadwyn was looking at Haleth in gleeful wonder.

"Oh Haleth, you didn't," she said.

Haleth scoffed. "Come now. Would my mother and father refuse to feed you? They love you. I told them about your food, and Father's going to speak to Grima and some other men about getting you some proper supplies."

I set the bread aside and we threw our arms around Haleth. As we broke apart, he said, "I really must go now and meet Wulfric. We're practicing swordplay."

"You have to teach _us_ something soon, you know," said Cadwyn. "Our skills are lacking."

"Tomorrow- no, the next day," Haleth said. "I promise. Come up to my house in the afternoon and I'll teach you."

He swung his cloak about his shoulders and walked out through the door. "Tell us if you found out anything more!" I shouted at his retreating back. He looked around, nodded, and then disappeared into a crush of talking women on the main path.

Cadwyn and I went back inside and pulled out the tough old baking paddle and put one of our loaves on it. Cadwyn started a fire in the oven, running outside for grass to feed it. Soon she had it going well, and I stuck the paddle into the oven, sliding it in as far as possible. Then Cadwyn warned all the children in the room not to come near the oven. We sat as close to it as we dared, soaking in the heat, and broke off two hunks of bread from one of Haleth's loaves. We each took a giant bite and chewed hungrily. I closed my eyes. The bread was sweet and soft and heavenly.

"Why doesn't our bread ever taste like this?" Cadwyn asked around her second mouthful.

"Hanawyn has finer flour," I said, contemplating my share. "Besides, other people's food always tastes better."

"Girls?" came Gwethawyn's voice from above us.

I raised my eyes, my open mouth frozen halfway to another bite. I hoped my face did not look as guilty as I felt.

"Where did you get that?" Gwethawyn asked. "Surely you cannot have baked a loaf by now?"

"Haleth's mother made it," Cadwyn said, pointing to the bundle in my lap. I stood up and showed the bread to Gwethawyn.

She took it from me and examined it. "What a favor," she said, her eyes shining and face beaming.

"And he said Hama is going to talk to Grima about supplies for the orphanage," said Cadwyn.

Gwethawyn looked up from the bread. "Hama?" she repeated. We nodded.

She gazed heavenward. "Thank Eorl," she said. "Finally someone with influence is willing to speak for us! What supplies did he mention?"

"We don't know," I said. "He just said 'some proper supplies.'"

"Well, I shall have to talk with him," she said, "Or send one of you. If Grima is involved, he can get us any number of things."

"But _will_ he?" It was out before I could stop myself.

Gwethawyn looked at me sharply. "You doubt that the king's chief advisor would want to help the citizens of Edoras?"

"Well…" I said, "I mean… he isn't very kind… if- if Haleth's right about him."

"You cannot judge a man by his looks," said Gwethawyn severely. "I have told you so many times."

"That's not it," Cadwyn said. "Haleth knows him personally, and he's always snapping at the pages and unpleasant to everyone."

Gwethawyn sniffed. "We shall see," she said. "He should not ignore Hama, particularly in this matter. After all my years of petitioning, perhaps we will finally get enough help."

Cadwyn and I looked at each other as the head nurse walked away. Why was Gwethawyn unwilling to hear a word against Grima? She could always see the good in everyone. From what Haleth had said, though, there didn't seem to be much good in Grima to see. I only hoped he would give us food. The bread rumbled in my stomach, and I ate the rest of my piece in one bite. I wasn't going to hope.

The rest of the day passed in a bored sort of haze. Cadwyn and I stayed inside, sitting as close to the oven as we could. We dozed in the warmth while the bread baked and children traipsed through and played, sometimes playing with them, sometimes letting them poke us as we feigned sleep. By the time the sun had sunk low over the White Mountains, we had two loaves baked and the last in the oven. Cadwyn delivered one of the loaves to Baldor, and by the time she got back, I had taken out the last loaf, doused the oven-fire, and was bent over the bread, fanning its aroma toward me.

My head filled with thoughts of supper, I checked our large potato basket that stood under the wooden counter. It was still halfway full. That was a good sign.

"Best start peeling those," came Anawyn's voice from behind me. "I'll need you two to make supper tonight. Boil the potatoes, won't you? That'll make a good supper, that and the bread. Remember, we'll need more than usual from now on."

_From now on…_ I wondered what would happen in the future. It was true, autumn was still about, and the chill of winter had not yet reached the plains. But what about when winter did come? Could we support all these children? Perhaps other families could take them in. But few households needed extra mouths to feed, particularly not extra mouths that would not even carry on the family bloodline. Freyda had told us this ages ago, when we were feeling despondent over being the oldest children in the orphanage.

I began pulling out potatoes and throwing them on the counter. There were twenty of us now… no, more than that. I laid out eleven potatoes and surveyed them, hands on hips. They didn't look like much. Ah well. Half a one for each of us would have to do.

"Cadwyn, could you- oh. Thank you." For Cadwyn had just handed me one of the knives we kept on the very top shelf of the pantry.

I grabbed one of the mixing bowls and a rag, sloshed some water from the bucket into the bowl, and scrubbed it out, while Cadwyn took the humongous black pot and tottered out to the well.

I peeled the potatoes carefully, not wanting a single slice of anything good to eat to go to waste. Cadwyn presently came back in, her cheeks pink and her hair disheveled.

"Quite some wind out there," she panted as she stepped carefully between two children and hung the pot over the fire. She then took up the poker and began turning over embers, stoking the fire to greater heights.

"Branwen," I called to one of the girls by the fire. "Won't you come and help me with these potatoes?"

The young girl came up to me and I handed her two peeled vegetables. "These are for supper," I explained.

Branwen went to take a bite of one.

"No, no!" I cried, waving my hands about all too enthusiastically. "You can't eat them now; they're for _supper_. Look, go and give them to Cadwyn, and then come back for more. I'll peel these as fast as I can."

Soon Branwen grew bored of the game of walking back and forth with potatoes she wasn't allowed to eat. So, throwing away all manners, I began to toss them.

"Coming in from the corner!" I shouted.

"Wait, not yet, not yet!" cried Cadwyn frantically, laying aside the poker she'd been using. I flung the potato and she caught it in her outstretched had and dropped it into the pot with a resonant plunk. The fire was going merrily now, and it was only a matter of time before the water would be boiling.

Geollyn and Deollyn traipsed into the orphanage just as Cadwyn made a spectacular catch out of a very clumsy throw. As she straightened up, the twins, along with several new boys whom I was only beginning to recognize, surrounded her at once.

"Can we play?" asked Deollyn.

"No," said Cadwyn severely, despite her smile. "This is no game. This is supper."

She turned to me and I lobbed another potato. This one she caught easily.

"I suggest you run along now, boys," said Cadwyn serenely as she threw the potato in and stirred the vegetables with a long wooden spoon. "You wouldn't want to do anything so girlish as cooking."

The twins looked indignant. "Why can't we?" asked Geollyn. "Don't you trust us?"

"Not on your life," Cadwyn told them, still smiling.

"I used to help with supper at home," said one of the new boys, very quietly.

The room fell silent but for the blaze of the fire and the bubbling of the pot. Cadwyn and I were both tensed, waiting for the flood of tears, the collapse as the boy remembered all that he did not have and could never have again. But it did not come.

"Mother always needed extra hands," he said calmly, seemingly oblivious to our sudden unease. "I'm good at kitchen stuff. I can help."

I said, as gently as I could, "Well, then you can slice the bread. Have you done that before?"

The boy nodded mutely. I fetched the bread knife with difficulty from the top shelf of the pantry and handed it to him, setting Hanawyn's loaves on the counter in front of them. I supervised his first few slices, then left him on his own and went back to the potatoes while Cadwyn set the twins and their friends to setting the table. The boy hadn't been lying; he was quite handy with the knife, and just as I finished the last of the vegetables, he turned to me.

"What now?" he asked. The bread lay in even slices on the counter beside him.

I asked him to take the bread and breadboard and butter to the table. But before he could leave, I said, "What is your name?"

"Leodmund," he said, carrying the food into the dining room.

"Leodmund," I muttered to myself as I went to look in on the potatoes.

Presently the potatoes were boiled enough, and Cadwyn and I tipped them out onto our large serving platter and carried them out to the dining room. Then we rounded up the few children who were still playing outside in the chill afternoon and sat down to eat.

The potatoes were good, though bland: Cadwyn hadn't added any salt. Whether she had forgotten or wanted to save it in case Grima did not agree to help us, I did not ask. Everyone exclaimed over Hanawyn's bread. The butter made it taste even better, if that was possible. I sat next to Leodmund on one side and Cadwyn on the other.

The dinner was just as quiet as last night. None of the new children had found their voices yet, but that was to be expected. It would be days at least until they had warmed to the orphanage and to us. I knew this from pushing Haldor too hard when he and Branwen first came. I had made the poor boy, then only five, huddle in a corner and cry for his mother, shrinking from me when I came over with peace offerings of prunes.

Once everyone had finished eating, Cadwyn and I gathered up the dishes as usual and washed them. This time, Leodmund silently helped us, so it took even less time than usual. I was far from full, so to take my mind off my stomach, I went outside and sat near the path, huddled in my cloak, watching people pass on their way home before dusk. None greeted me, but I was used to that.

Presently the sun sank below the mountains, and Cadwyn came to pull me back inside to send the children to bed. We oversaw the unrolling of bedrolls and then retired to the dining room. I felt strangely exhausted, though the day had not been taxing.

We were just unrolling our own bedrolls for another night on the table when a great clanging came echoing over the rooftops of Edoras. It was faint but distinct, and I was almost certain I hadn't imagined it. Yes, there it was again- the great bell near Meduseld was ringing.

Cadwyn and I dropped our bedrolls and hurried to the door. Children were already grouped around the open door, staring into the night. I peered over their heads. The bell stopped ringing, but its echoes lingered in my mind and chilled my spine when I realized what they must mean.

I looked at Cadwyn. "You don't think Theodred...?" I whispered.

"I think so," she said, biting her lip.

Gwethawyn came up behind us. "All right, the fuss is over, everyone to bed," she said, shutting the door.

"Gwethawyn," I said urgently. "Is he really dead?"

"They wouldn't ring the bell for any other reason," Cadwyn added, seeking agreement.

The head nurse pursed her lips. "I have not the faintest idea why the bell was rung. I would suggest, however, that you find out the truth before you start spreading rumors."

"We don't spread rumors-" Cadwyn began indignantly.

"Unless you are certain of something, it is hearsay," the nurse said sharply. "For once, rest your imaginations and do not frighten the children with your wild stories."

I opened my mouth but could find nothing to say. Gwethawyn was right. I took Cadwyn gently by the elbow and led her into the dining room.

Late that night, I dreamed I was standing alone on the plain. I looked around for a horse, or Haleth, but there was no one. Then with a great jolt, I realized that Edoras was not behind me, nor anywhere at all, no matter which way I turned. I was lost. I turned my face to the sky to try to tell the time, but saw vast, roiling towers of black clouds, thunder rumbling from their depths, shaking the ground, pounding. I cried out for help, but the thunder drowned me out. The blackness was oppressive; it advanced down towards me, bearing down, the thundering growing louder, overtaking me-

I woke up disoriented and sat up quickly before realizing that I was in the orphanage, safe, that it was only a nightmare. But the thunder continued and the ground under the table trembled. Confused, I rubbed my eyes, listening hard. Finally the thunder settled down into a recognizable rhythm. Hoof beats.

I flung off the top of the bedroll and ran to the door. Wrenching it open, I saw dozens of dark shapes, horses and riders, flashing down the path past me. Down through the city and out through the gate they pounded, the men bellowing. I caught "We ride for Rohan!" before the last of them rode past the orphanage and onto the plain. I could just see past the gate many dark shapes against the moon-pale grass.

I became dimly aware that there were people behind me, and I turned to find Cadwyn and the nurses already ushering a few groggy children (and the fiercely protesting Geollyn and Deollyn) back into the main room. With one last look at the men moving away now across the plain, I shut the door and steered the twins firmly into the main room.

I climbed into my bedroll but could not sleep until the first hint of dawn came creeping into the blackness of the sky. My last thought before I fell asleep was one I had thought a thousand times since I had seen the riders: who were they? Why had they left? And did their absence mean more trouble for Edoras?

* * *

A/N: At last, the second chapter. It seems even longer than the first, perhaps simply because so much of it seems unnecessary. If any parts felt unnecessary to you, please tell me, because I must get the story off the ground and moving. Things need to start _happening_. Thank you very much for reading! Reviews are much appreciated, and constructive criticism is likewise always welcome. 


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